


Look at Me

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (with accompanying consent issues), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Smith/Wesson, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Christmas, Coming Untouched, Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, New Year's Eve, Older Dean, Rimming, Romance, SPN J2 Secret Santa, Teen Angst, Top Dean, Voyeurism, younger Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: It was an accident, the first time. Coincidence, the second, maybe the third. But on the day Sam unpacked his binoculars, well… All his denials sank after that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> So I started with your prompt for baby swesson, threw in some age difference/90’s AU, and maybe leaned a little on [this post](https://dollyluxe.tumblr.com/post/166884973781/tell-us-your-sweecest-headcanons). (Is that cheating? ◔‿◔) I sure hope you dig the results. Merry everything, darling! You’re a treasure.
> 
> Infinite and eternal thanks, as ever, bestie-beta [crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad), and the [spn-j2-xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) mods.
> 
> Bonus: Sam Wesson 90’s mixtape on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEiGQRh-pLuX5iCoIZSNkN95BoVf1k2qi) or [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/laughablelament/playlist/2jRrHO18Od0CWWsCc6mZxA).

Sam’s going to Hell.

He’s not even sure he believes in Hell, but if it’s real, he’s going there.

Mom bought him binoculars when they went to Florida last year. He’d sat on the beach and watched dolphins, pelicans, seagulls. Dad built him this treehouse the first year they moved from the city.

Mr. Smith pulls off his tie and hangs it neatly in his closet. Tosses his dress shirt in the hamper and folds his slacks. Black boxer briefs outline his ass against his bedroom’s bright walls. He picks up some jogging shorts, sniffs them and shrugs before slipping them on. Measures his pulse, thick fingers pressed against his neck. Steps on his—elliptical, Sam thinks it’s called. Tight t-shirt shifts and strains across his strong arms, broad back.

Sam breathes fast. Can’t look away, not when Mr. Smith sweats, shirt turns transparent. Moons under his arms and a vee down his spine, clings in the groove.

Mr. Smith slows, takes his pulse again then hits it hard. Knees and elbows pump a brutal rhythm. Sweat-stains spread. Sam’s pulse races too and his fascination wins out over shame, again.

It was an accident, the first time. Coincidence, the second, maybe the third. But the day he unpacked his binoculars, well… All his denials sank after that.

Mr. Smith was handsome, sure, but he was also _nice_. All the local kids knew it too. Back when Sam delivered the paper, Mr. Smith gave him the biggest tips. Every school fundraiser—popcorn, candy, Christmas cards, didn’t matter—Mr. Smith bought from every kid on the block. Dad liked him for bringing good steaks to the neighborhood cookouts. Mom liked his taste in wine.

Pulse check, and he slows again. _Interval training,_ Sam looked it up. He’ll do it two more times before he strips and disappears—Sam guesses to shower. He’s figured out a lot these couple of months, but it’s not enough. Sam wants to know everything: where Mr. Smith works in the city, what he eats, where he shops, who he fucks—Sam blushes but keeps on watching. Monday and Wednesday evenings, Saturday mornings, every week.

Yeah…

Sam’s so going to Hell.

 

Saturday, December chill. Sam flops on his beanbag chair, all faded and half duct-taped. Bundled up, thermos of cocoa and trusty binoculars—

He jerks back, thermos bangs the bare floor.

Mr. Smith, stopped mid-swipe, fistful of paper towels and wet drops on the window. Maybe squints, too fast to be sure, but his lips draw up—whistling, Sam bets—and he goes back to scrubbing. Sam scrambles down the wood slats nailed to the tree trunk, hauls ass into the house and hides in his room. Makes like he’s studying, even though his racing heart (and brain) fully prevent that.

Five minutes.

Half an hour.

Half the day.

And Sam decides his imagination must’ve got the best of him. He grabs some lunch, even gets some homework done.

Doorbell.

“Smitty!”

Sam’s head jerks up.

“John, you know I hate that nickname.”

“And I hate your two-car garage. We all got crosses.”

“You’re an ass.”

“What brings you by?”

Sam prays for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead.

“Is Sam home?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so. He break your window playin’ ball again?”

“Not since ’92.” Laugh underneath.

Sam makes himself breathe. At least Mr. Smith doesn’t sound pissed.

“That was a clusterfuck, huh?”

“Just kids being kids,” Mr. Smith says, cool as can be.

“Sammy!” Dad yells.

He’s so screwed. Sam trudges downstairs.

“Hi, Sam.” Smile on his face, calm in his voice. “I got a job for you.”

Sam blinks. “A job?”

“I’m having my Christmas tree delivered today. Sure could use your help gettin’ it upright.”

“Uh…”

“Pay you ten bucks.”

“Yeah. Okay.” What else can he say?

“You can even stay for dinner, if your folks don’t mind.”

“Fine by me,” Dad says.

Mr. Smith tilts his head. “Well grab your coat and come on, Sam. Truck’ll be here any minute.”

Sam does as he’s told. Mouth’s dry and his head spins. Never once has Mr. Smith hired a neighborhood kid for an odd job. Not that Sam knows, anyway. They turn down the sidewalk.

“I’d appreciate a hand with the decorating too, if you’re interested.” Salt-slush splashes under their feet. “Tall guy like you? Won’t even need a ladder for the star.”

“Sure, Mr. Smith.”

“Everything all right, Sam? Y’seem kinda tense.”

“Oh-uhh… yes, sir. Just surprised.”

Mr. Smith bumps their shoulders. “Good surprised, I hope.” Weight in his voice, something Sam can’t read.

He nods.

 

“Okay, count of three!” Mr. Smith shoves up, Sam holds the base. Eight-foot tree teeters a little, but they get it steady. “Here, hand me those shears.” Sam does, and he cuts the ropes. Branches feather out, a perfect pyramid. “Would you look at that?”

“Awesome,” Sam says, means it. “My mom’s allergic. We have a plastic tree.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Mr. Smith shrugs. “Thought that counts, right?”

“I guess so.”

Mr. Smith presses his palms together, grimaces. “I am gross.”

Pine sap. “Yeah, me too.” Sam balls sticky fists and opens them. “Point for plastic, huh?”

“Definitely.” Mr. Smith grins. “Let’s wash up, huh? Then you can help me untangle the lights.” He leads Sam to the kitchen, rolls up his sleeves.

Sam watches, inch by inch as Mr. Smith bares powerful forearms. Soaps his hands, strong and smooth and manicured. Nothing like Dad’s mechanic hands: callused, permanent grime lines under his nails.

“You like pasta, Sam? I make a mean cacciatore.” Mr. Smith rinses and dries.

Sam takes his place at the sink. “Sounds good to me.”

“Fantastic.” Mr. Smith stands close. Sam can smell his cologne, spicy and warm. “I’ll tell you what, you sort out those lights and I’ll get started.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam flicks water in the sink.

Mr. Smith hands him the towel. Knuckles brush through the cloth. “You’re a good kid, Sam.”

 _Not really,_ Sam thinks, but, “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on, now. Got work to do.”

Sam hangs the towel on its hook.

 

Supper’s done, dishwasher runs and they scatter tinsel through the needles. Mr. Smith tells Sam about growing up in South Dakota, his high school wrestling days.

“Yeah, I’m way more nerd than jock,” Sam admits, red-faced. “I’m like, on Quiz Bowl?”

“That’s the thing with the buzzers, right? Kinda, Jeopardy-ish?”

“Uh-huh.” Sam rolls eyes at himself. “It’s not cool, I know. But it’s really fun. We get out of school for meets, at least.” Sam shows teeth, half smile, half wince.

Mr. Smith elbows him. “Stop with the not-cool, huh? By the time you’re thirty, nerds rule the world.” He hands Sam a crystal star. “You’re up.”

Sam has to tip-toe, but he gets it on the second try.

“Let’s light ’er up!” And Mr. Smith plugs in, all white lights, glittering foil and frosted glass. Sam’s star throws rainbows on the ceiling. Mr. Smith whistles. “Perfect.”

Sam’s chest swells, grin splashed on his face. “It’s awesome,” he says again, feels a twinge. He’ll have to go home soon.

Mr. Smith watches. Crinkles around his eyes but he doesn’t smile. Sam’s face heats.

“Sam, come have a seat.” He sits on the edge of a leather recliner. Sam takes the couch, catty-corner. Mr. Smith draws a breath. “I saw you this morning.”

 _Shit._ Sam knew it. “Mr. Smith, I am _so_ sorry. I was—”

“How long?”

Sam looks down. Lump in his throat and fire in his cheeks. “Couple of months,” he mumbles.

“What have you seen?” Voice calm and even.

“Just…” Sam’s eyes prick. “I watch you exercise.”

Quiet. Sam looks up. Lines split Mr. Smith’s forehead, mouth almost smiles. “That’s all?”

Sam nods. “I won’t do it again. I—”

“Hush, Sam.”

Sam’s teeth click.

“Come with me.” Mr. Smith stands, heads for the stairs. Sam’s pulse picks up, but he goes along. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Okay…”

Mr. Smith leads him to an office. Modern desk with a huge computer screen. Comfortable-looking chair. Bookshelves, Sam can’t see the titles. Mr. Smith leaves the lights off. “Look here.” Out the window.

Sam’s room. No more than twenty feet away, blinds closed. “Mr. Smith?”

He steps behind, close enough for Sam to feel his warmth, not touching. “I’d never make you uncomfortable, Sam. But if you…” breath steams, back of his neck, “If you want to, open your blinds, before you go to bed.”

All Sam’s blood bolts for his crotch. Head swims and he nods.

“Don’t do anything different, you understand? Just, do what you always do.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Mr. Smith groans, barely audible.

“Go home, Sam. I’ll see you soon.”

Sam’s not even sure how he makes it downstairs, across the yard. Dizzy, drunk on scenarios, he stops on the porch. _What does he want?_ Realizes, he doesn’t care.

 

Dad’s got him out scooping snow the next Saturday. Missing his—(date?)—date. With Mr. Smith. Sam takes it out on the driveway, flings every shovelful as hard as he can.

Mr. Smith exercised, Monday and Wednesday, same as always. Never made like he knew Sam was there. Sam tried his best to pretend, every night, that his blinds weren’t open—even though he sometimes saw the computer monitor glow. Mr. Smith said, _nothing different_ , as if. So yeah. He took his time, taking his clothes off. Pointed his butt at the window, climbing in bed. Still, he jerked off in his dirty shorts, under the covers, only twice. He’d always been more of a morning guy.

“Hi, Sam!” Mr. Smith ducks out from his garage. Black wool coat and a scarf pulled tight. “You want some help with that?”

Sam’s eyes widen.

“I got a new toy!” Mr. Smith disappears back inside. Growl of an engine and he rolls out a bright red snow-blower. “You wanna try it?” Snow arcs high from the blower’s chute as Mr. Smith carves a path down his driveway, turns up the walk and heads Sam’s direction. “Come on!”

Sam jams his shovel in a snowbank. “This is so cool. My dad’s gonna freak.”

Mr. Smith grins. “Right?” He walks Sam through the controls, pretty much like a lawnmower. “Think you can handle it?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam nods, fires the motor and guides the machine to his driveway. Sure enough, he gets close to the house and here comes Dad, out on the porch. Mr. Smith joins him, talking and laughter that Sam can’t hear, but he can imagine:

_You’re ridiculous, Smith._

_You’re jealous, Wesson._

_You’re goddamn right._

Sam finishes the driveway and path to his porch in no time. Even clears the sidewalk. Not really fun, but next to shoveling? He wheels the blower around and shuts it down.

Dad heads inside and Mr. Smith comes down the steps. “Hey, Sam, I’ll tell you what. You take care of my place, I’ll run get us some lunch. Your dad says it’s okay.”

“Sure!”

“Chinese sound good?”

“Sounds great.” He’d be happy with school food, if he got to hang out with Mr. Smith.

“I like Szechuan, is that too spicy?”

Sam shrugs. “I never tried it. Dad says it gives him heartburn.”

Mr. Smith chuckles.

“But I trust you,” Sam says.

Soft smile. Pat on the back. “All right, let’s do this. Side door’s open, if you get done before I get back. Just go on in.”

“Thanks, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank _you_ , Sam. You’re doing the hard part.”

Sam ducks his head.

“Be back soon.”

Sam stares as he walks away.

 

Turns out, Sam’s not into Szechuan. Peppers burn his tongue, water his eyes and make him sweat. Mr. Smith pours him a glass of milk, which helps, but makes him feel like a baby.

“It’s okay, Sam. It’s not for everyone.” Mr. Smith’s hand lingers on his shoulder. Gives him a squeeze. “Have some more rice, that’ll help too.”

Sam ends up eating mostly eggrolls. Mr. Smith snags bites of chicken and peppers with chopsticks. Talks about his summer plans to redo the kitchen.

“Think I’m just gonna paint the cabinets white, update the fixtures,” pause for a swallow of pop, “put in some track lights, which, I know. Can you be any more gay?”

“Uh…” Sam stammers. Blurts out, “Track lights are gay?”

Mr. Smith cracks up. “Wow, you know nothing of your heritage, do ya?”

Red face Sam can’t blame on the food. Sure, his whole spy routine would’ve made it obvious. Still, just, having it out there…

Foot nudges him under the table. “Hey. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Did I get it wrong?”

“No,” he answers too fast. “I mean,” eye roll, “my mom says she knew since preschool.”

“So your folks are cool.”

“My mom is. My dad… took a while. But at this point I think he’s more annoyed I hated baseball.”

Mr. Smith’s smile bowls Sam over. “That’s really great, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m super lucky. There was this guy from my school, a couple of years ago. His parents kicked him out ’cause they found gay stuff on his computer.” Sam looks down.

Warm hand settles on his wrist. “People are assholes, sometimes.”

Sam nods. “Um, how about your mom and dad?” He’s heard enough about the Smiths to figure they’re close.

“Pretty much like yours. I mean, they run that bar and grill off the Interstate, so, you know, they get all kinds.”

Sam turns his arm, curls fingers in Mr. Smith’s sleeve. “I’m glad.” Squeezes, hard enough to mean it then slips free. Goes for his milk.

They finish lunch, don’t talk much more. Looks like the peppers get to Mr. Smith too. Face turns kinda pink, and he has _lots_ of freckles. Nose and cheeks, one on his lip. Sam never looked this close before, too shy.

“I dunno what kind of plans you have for today,” Mr. Smith says, rinsing their dishes. “I’ve got some work to catch up on later, but we could chill and watch a movie, if you want. You ever seen _Trading Places_?”

“That’s, Eddie Murphy, right?”

“And Dan Aykroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis. It’s a classic, man. Christmassy, too, so…”

“Works for me.”

Sam sits on the couch and Mr. Smith puts in the DVD. Big, projection TV, badass surround sound. Four remotes.

“Freakin’ ridiculous, huh?” Mr. Smith gripes. “None of the universals’ll work it all, so…”

“We all got crosses.” Sam grins.

Mr. Smith eyes him. “You’re quoting your dad to me?”

Teasing. “He’s a wise man.”

“Wise- _ass_ ,” he mutters. “And I see you take after him. Scoot over.”

Sam does. Mr. Smith sits next to him. Knees bump and it’s hard to pay attention. Mr. Smith laughs, smacks Sam’s arm in the funny parts. Sam accidentally-on-purpose wiggles closer.

“What’d you think?” Big goofy grin.

Shrug, “S’okay, I guess.” Sam cuts his eyes over.

“What?” Mr. Smith gasps, fake-shocked. “You have zero taste.” Hand to his chest. “None!”

Sam grins. “I’m just screwin’ with you. It was really good.” In fact, Sam wishes he’d seen it before his business class last year. Just now thinks he understands short-sales.

Mr. Smith pulls Sam’s coat off a pale wood tree stand, holds it out. Sam slips hands down the sleeves. Strong arms not-quite around him. Sam rocks back, inhales. “Mr. Smith?”

“Hm?”

“Can I—kiss you?”

Whispery, “Sam…”

Turns, sees Mr. Smith’s eyes close. Deep breath, forehead scrunched like pain. Bomb goes off in Sam’s chest. Pushed too hard, but Mr. Smith doesn’t pull away.

“You gotta stop with the Mr. Smith.”

Sam doesn’t—

“Call me Dean, okay?”

“Dean.” Sam tries it out. Feels weird, but he likes it. “Can I?”

Dean nods. Soft lips brush. Sam’s head spins, wants more. Smacks into Mr.— _Dean’s_ nose, bumps foreheads. “Hey.” Smile, thumb at his jaw. “Easy.”

Sam’s chin drops. Face burns and sweat breaks. Heart pounds.

“No need to rush, Sam.” Hooked fingers, under his chin. “Look at me.”

Takes all Sam’s nerve and then some, forcing his eyes up. “Mr.—”

Squint.

“Dean.”

He nods. Mouth corner quirks.

“I’m—”

“Perfect.” Tremor voice. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that.”

Sam shakes his head.

“See you later, Sam.” Dean steps back, opens the door. “Soon.”

“Bye, Dean,” still feels weird, crazy-good-weird. Sam steals one more kiss, peck to Dean’s cheek. Half floats home.

 

Sam studies trig, best he can when his lips still taste like Mr. Sm— _Dean_. His imagination, for sure, but it’s still distracting. Wonders if Dean’s gonna watch him tonight. He dodged Sam’s questions about when and how and what he thinks.

Sam’s neck cracks and he yawns, 11:30. Didn’t realize he’d gone so late. Mr. Smith must still be working. Monitor gleams, not bright enough to show his face.

Sam stands up. Flips on his overhead light and kills the desk lamp. Tugs off clothes, layer by layer. Runs hands over his naked chest, up through his hair and down, over his hipbones, inside his shorts. Head falls back, mind runs wild imagining Dean, surprised and turned on, hard for him. He slides his briefs down, drops in his chair and looks right through the windows, wonders how much Dean sees. Knee hooks an armrest, eyes close, teasing and scratching. Sam’s dick jumps and he palms himself, free hand pinches his nipples, rolls his balls.

Voice in his head says, _This is stupid, Sam_. Too skinny, awkward, clumsy… Screw it. Dean might not even be there. Might’ve gone to bed, which, Sam goes with that. He scoots down, chair tilts back. Spits in his hand and groans. Grinding his teeth, pumping his fist. Wishes he had Dean doing it for him, wrapped around him, whispering. Sam goes slow, changes grips and angles, brings himself up to the edge, once, twice. Precome seeps out his slit, shines in the light. Sam spreads it and shivers. Hips kick, thighs shake and he bites his lip, all he can do to stay quiet.

In his head Dean tells him, “Come for me, Sam. Show me,” and he spurts, hot up his chest. Head slams back, eyes squeeze shut. Shot after shot, thick and slippery, coats his hand, covers his belly. Sam keeps on, pulls ’til it hurts. Panting and sweat-soaked. Slow coming down.

Sam looks out his window. Dark, no sign of life. Sam blushes hard but he can’t stop grinning. Can’t help hoping.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunday is the longest day of Sam’s life. Dean drives to Columbus most weekends, visits his sister at college. Sam tries to study, for all the good it does him. He helps his mom wrap presents. Watches the Browns game.

After school Monday he rushes home, crams down a snack, flies through his chores. Tromps through the snow to his treehouse. Climbs up careful. Wind screams off the lake but it barely registers. He goes to the window.

Sam blinks. Dean has his curtains drawn. All this time, he never… Sam lifts his binoculars. Not even a crack in the middle. Gut-punched. He fights to breathe. Head goes light and he’s hot all over. _Patience, Sam. Maybe he just got cold last night. Any minute now…_

He checks his watch. Checks it again. _Maybe he just forgot_ , but Sam knows that’s bull. Eyes close, a threat of tears and now he feels the cold. Sweats anyway and he shivers. Sinks to his beanbag chair and buries his face in his hands. He glances up, every now and then, ’til he’s sure Dean’s done working out.

Sam heads for the house. Picks at his meatloaf, mashed potatoes. Dad gives him shit and Mom makes a fuss.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “Just finals stress.”

They let it go. Don’t even hassle him for disappearing upstairs.

Sam pauses at his door. No chance Dean’s watching him now. He kicks around whether to shut his blinds, block Dean out or act like nothing’s the matter. Both options suck. Sam tries to ignore the dark office and ends up crawling straight into bed. _Let Dean look,_ he figures. _Just don’t give him anything to look at._ Sam shuts off his light, buries his face in his pillows and cries ’til he sleeps.

Somehow, he gets through his trig test. History’s a breeze. He tries to re-read _Golden Compass_ in his downtime but his brain is shot. Can’t think about anything other than Dean—his grassy smell, his crinkly eyes, his laugh, his kiss, his smiles and freckles—and Sam fucked it all up.

Wednesday goes the same, except this time Sam climbs his tree like it’s the gallows. Curtains closed. And Sam ought to go back inside where it’s warm, where he won’t keep looking, where his stupid tears won’t freeze on his face.

Sam pulls it together, sneaks in the back door, slips upstairs. Bathroom. Unforgiving lights by the mirror. Icy water. God, he’s a wreck. Wants to say he’s sorry, promise he won’t watch anymore, won’t touch anymore, as long as Dean will be his friend again. Can’t even _hope_ , for—whatever he’d thought was happening. He’d pushed too hard, gone too far, and now…

Dad yells. Dinner, and Sam chokes down a plate of cheeseburger macaroni, peas and carrots. Luxury of grunt-replies while he’s busy chewing.

 

Christmas Eve, Sam chops carrots and cabbage for Mom’s coleslaw, grates spices and cuts up apples for pie. He rattles around the house. Paints on a smile, tries to be cheerful. Dad lets him drink a beer and Mom says, “Hey, sweetie. You mind running Mr. Smith’s present next door?”

Sam damn near slides to the floor.

“I think it’s great, how he’s taken an interest in you.” Blah-blah something about his company and a job for the summer.

Sam’s mind flails around for a cop-out, any excuse but he comes up empty. “Sure, uh…” Doesn’t even sound like his own voice. “Lemme clean up first.”

Mom’s head tilts, quirk to her eyes but it’s gone in a flash.

Sam flees. Gets to his room and digs in his desk. Old box of stationery, buried. Birthday gift from Grandpa Henry years ago. Smooth, heavy sheets, monogrammed with Sam’s initials.

_Dear Mr. Smith,_

And Sam realizes he better draft this thing on notebook paper.

_Ever since you moved here, you’ve been—_

The hottest guy Sam’s ever seen? No.

_nothing but good to me. I—_

Fucked up, can’t say that either.

_took advantage of your kindness._

Lame. Sam crosses it out.

_I thought I saw something that wasn’t there._

That works.

_I apologize, and I hope you’ll forgive me. I understand if you don’t want to speak to me, though. I won’t—_

Ugh. He doesn’t want to write…

_do what I was doing anymore. I promise._

Sam grits teeth. Can’t think of anything better without…

_Anyway, the wine is from my mom. You probably knew that. I hope you have a nice—_

Life.

 _holiday_.

That ought to cover it. Sam copies it carefully onto the stationery.

_Merry Christmas,  
Sam_

He seals the envelope, slips it down inside Mom’s silvery gift bag. Screws up all his nerve.

Gray Jeep with an Avis sticker sits frosty in De— _Mr. Smith’s_ driveway. Whole family’s in town. Last week, Sam hoped he might get to meet them. Light from the Christmas tree spills out to the porch. Sam doesn’t dare look. Can’t bring himself to ring the bell. Just, opens the storm door, hangs the gift bag on the knob and slips away.

 

Sam wakes up smelling cinnamon rolls, Mom’s go-to Christmas breakfast. Soon the house starts filling up with family. Grandma and Grandpa Campbell, Aunt Gwen and her kids, Uncle Deacon. Packages stack up under the tree and the kitchen runs full steam. Sam keeps himself occupied chasing the little kids. Glad for the houseful—not like he’d get to watch Dean today anyway.

Dad lights the fireplace. Calls everyone to the front room and hands out gifts. Sam manages real smiles, cousin on each side, worshipful. Teasing and laughter. Paper and bows slowly cover the floor. Usual socks and sweaters. Toys, booze, and perfume. Sam gets a couple of PlayStation games, the new Beck CD, a mall gift certificate.

“Hey! Almost forgot!” Dad says, hands over a small box. White trees on a red background. Silver bow. He and Mom share a long look.

Sam gives it a shake. Feels weight in there, moving around. He tears it open… “Dad?”

Broad grin.

Two keys on a silvery ring, little metal disk. Sam turns it over. Chevy logo, _Blazer 4x4_. He barely hears:

“We’ll get you on the title after the new year.”

Sam blinks.

“You’re insured though,” Dad says. “I’ll run you down to the shop here in a minute. Let you drive it home.”

Kind of in a daze, Sam shakes his grandpa’s hand, hugs Mom and Grandma and Aunt Gwen.

“Go on,” Mom says, shine to her eyes they both ignore.

Dad drives in silence. Glances over at Sam, half-smiles and head-shakes. Unlocks the garage. “You’re gonna have to take care of it. Keep the oil changed, tires rotated, you know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.”

Door rumbles open on an old-model Blazer. Black, two doors, sport package.

“Dad, this is…” Sam walks around. Just a little beat-up, rust spots around the wheel wells.

“Me and Mike rebuilt the engine. Figure we can put in the body work over the summer.”

“I dunno what to say,” Sam kinda wants to pinch himself. “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas, son.” Dad grabs a shoulder, hauls him into a bear hug. Fist thumps Sam’s back. “Go on and fire it up. I’ll see you back home.”

Sam climbs in the driver’s seat. Takes a second to catch his breath. Dad idles, waits for Sam so he can lock up. Must’ve busted his ass on this thing. Everything’s clean, new floor mats and an after-market stereo. Sam turns the key, fixes the mirrors, finds a radio station. Backs out careful and hits the street, blown away. He gets to _drive_ to school next week. Ian’ll shit himself.

He still thinks about Mr. Smith. Chest aches and his teeth grind. Sam tries shaking it off. Practically speaking, they only hung out for two days, even though Sam’s had a—a crush on him since seventh grade.

Mom’s pulling ham out of the oven when Sam gets back. Still not hungry. Still pretends. Uncle Deacon gives him fuzzy dice before he leaves, which, Sam will _not_ hang from his rearview. Everybody laughs and hugs and thanks. Sam sits in the Blazer, plays CD’s ’til he can’t take the cold anymore.

Dad snores in his recliner. Mom pushes him more pie. Sam’s head feels too small. Shoulda been a perfect Christmas. Too bad his stupid heart can’t get the message.

Sam begs off to his room, screws around with _Tomb Raider_ a while. Come bedtime, he sucks it up and lets his blinds down. Turns the stick until Mr. Smith’s window disappears.

 

Overnight snowfall puts him out in the yard the next morning, shoveling. Mom and Dad took off, hitting the after-Christmas sales. Sam’s truck sits by the curb. Eyes dart back and forth between it and the house next door. Last section of driveway, voices. Can’t help but glance as they pack the Jeep.

Blue jeans and a full beard. “We’ll see ya for Jo’s graduation, boy.” Gruff.

“Take care of yourself, son.” Smoky and kind.

“I will,” Mr. Smith hugs his mom. “And I’ll see _you_ in a few weeks, runt.”

“Butthead.” Pretty blonde punches at him. Mr. Smith bats her away.

“You damn kids.” Mrs. Smith rounds the Jeep and spots Sam. “Well hi there!”

Sam’s heart rockets into his throat. Dad’ll kill him if he’s rude. He forces a smile. “Hello.”

Mr. Smith gestures. “Bob and Ellen Smith, Sam Wesson.”

“Dude.” Jo backhands him.

“Right. My sister Jo.”

Sam waves. “It’s nice meeting you all.”

“Howdy, Sam.” Bob Smith tips his ball cap. “Smith and Wesson. If that ain’t—”

“Sam?” Mrs. Smith interrupts. “The neighbor boy you’re always talkin’ about?” She treks right through the snow to give Sam a hug. “Why hell, you’re as big as a beanstalk.” Pats his cheek, “Handsome, too.”

Sam hugs back, awkward. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Huh-uh. None of that ma’am crap. I’m Ellen.”

Sam nods.

“All right, let’s get a move on.” The elder Smith climbs in the Jeep. “Gotta haul ass if we’re gonna make our flight.”

More goodbyes and Sam turns away. Clears the last patch of snow, eyes on his shovel. Jeep takes off down the street and he breathes.

“Nice truck.”

Sam jolts.

“Your dad’s been gloatin’ about it for months. You drive it yet?”

“I-uh…” Sam swallows. “I mean. Yes, sir. Just home from the shop, but—”

“Take me for a spin?” He nods at the Blazer.

Sam panics a little. “Uh, sure, just. Lemme grab my keys.”

“Take your time.” Mr. Smith strolls out, leans on the passenger door. Crossed arms and ankles and nose red-cold.

Sam tries to act casual, at least ’til he’s in the garage. He flies to his room and back. Stops at the front door, jackhammer heart. _Be cool, Sam_. As if. He takes a breath, heads out.

“Where to?” Sam asks, once they’re loaded up.

“Someplace we can talk.” Mr. Smith shrugs. “Tate’s Drive-in?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Mr. Smith turns down the radio. “Listen, Sam. I owe you an apology. For all this. I thought… Shit, I dunno what I was thinkin’.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“No. None of this is on you, you hear me? I’m the adult here. And the other night—”

No need to ask which night.

“—all I had to do was get out of that chair and go to bed.” He rubs his mouth. “Fuck, but you…” Fingers drum. He shifts his weight. “You were what, twelve when I moved out here?”

“Eleven.”

“Right.” Teeth clench. “And you… well you grew up great, Sam. I dunno how else to say it. Like, you’re grown for your age, but you’re not, and I…” Sharp exhale. “Okay. You remember when you and Ty Brady put a baseball through my window?”

“God.” How could Sam forget?

“That little shit made you do all the talking, hung behind you, clearly not a damn bit sorry, and you… On the one hand you’re lookin’ up at me, like you think I’m gonna kill you but you stood your ground. Talkin’bout, you wanna own up, take responsibility…” He clears his throat. “And look, I wasn’t pervin’ on you back then, I swear to God, it was just—you were a neat kid. And you wouldn’t leave ’til I gave you somethin’ to do to make it up to me.”

“Pulled all the weeds in your backyard,” Sam remembers. Blistered his hands, grass-stained his jeans something awful.

“Only chore I could come up with! Man, there was a shitload of ’em too. I hadn’t messed with the yard hardly at all since I moved in. I figured, you’d pull until you got bored and I’d let it go.” Head shakes. “Ty took off in an hour, but damn if you didn’t work out there ’til the sun went down, ’til your dad came lookin’ for you.”

“He was so pissed.”

“Yeah, he was.” Mr. Smith grins, “Don’t tell him I told you, but, he also thought it was hilarious.” Serious. “And, he was proud of you.”

Sam turns for the drive-in, parks in a stall.

“Not many kids that age woulda done what you did.” Mr. Smith leans over, checks out the menu. “You drink coffee, Sam?”

“No, sir.” Like a baby. Again. Heat springs to his cheeks and he feels Dean tense.

“Hot chocolate then. Two of ’em. Tall.” He opens his coat to dig out his wallet. Hips hitch up off the seat and Sam crams down all the thoughts _that_ conjures.

Quiet in the truck after he orders. Carhop skates out, bundled in a high school jacket and sock cap. Mr. Smith hands her a ten and tells her to keep the change.

“Thank you,” Sam says. Rolls up the window, warms his hands around the Styrofoam.

“I guess…” Mr. Smith goes on. “Once I knew you’d been lookin’ at me, like that, I kinda thought, why not? You know, just, hang out. Go slow. See if we…” Twitch in his jaw, and he sips his chocolate. “I dunno.”

Silence stretches.

Sam screws up his nerve. “My freshman year, this senior girl, Madison, took me to prom.”

Mr. Smith’s eyebrows go up. “Older women too, huh?” Smirky grin.

Sam blushes hard. “We were friends, you know? From Quiz Bowl. I mean, I thought we were friends.” Sam blows steam off his cup. First taste kinda burns his tongue. “She-uh… I mean we…” Huff of breath. “I wasn’t out yet, even to me, so. You know, when she…”

“Mm-hm.” Mr. Smith nods.

“I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. She was nice about it though. I don’t think she’d ever—done it—either and, it wasn’t like, I hated it? But,” _Come on, Sam, just say it._ “I kept wishing it was you.”

Eyebrows again. Mr. Smith drinks, hides his mouth.

“So, I’m sorry I went too far. I thought—or I hoped, I guess—you wanted—”

“Sam.” Soft.

“Mr. Smith?”

He winces. Tries to hide it but Sam sees. “I asked you to call me Dean.”

Warmth blooms in his chest, just a speck. “Okay.”

“We should head back, you think?”

“Yeah,” Sam looks at his watch. “Mom and Dad’ll be home soon. I don’t want to worry ’em.”

“See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. I tortured my parents when I was your age.”

“I doubt that.” Sam chuckles.

“Oh yeah? You should ask my mother. Or not, if you don’t want your ears scorched off.”

Sam wheels away from his parking spot. Glances at Dean. Mumbles, “So what now?”

“I dunno, man. I don’t wanna see you get hurt. Like, what if I scar you for life?”

“Big-headed much?” Sam blurts, cringes.

But Dean laughs. “Yeah… I guess I am.”

Sam grips the wheel. “Would you, want to try again? Like you said? Slow?”

No answer, long enough for Sam to think he screwed it up again. Then, “Shit. How many men have you even dated?”

“Dated?” Sam shrugs. “None.”

“See—”

“I hooked up with my roommate at math camp.”

“Math camp?” Shoulders shake but it’s not mean. “Well, in fairness I got laid three years running at wrestling camp.”

“Okay, that sounds freakin’ hot.”

“You have no idea. Wrestlers are bendy.”

Sam gulps. Glances and their eyes meet.

“Why don’t you come by tomorrow? Sandover’s closed, and you’re on break, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t wanna promise anything. Are you cool with that?”

Sam nods. “Just hangin’ out.”

“Fantastic.” Dean turns up the radio, gripes about Green Day.

“My truck, my tunes,” Sam says and Dean shows palms.

“Speaking of, if you need a place to park this beast, you can use my driveway.”

Sam blinks. “Wha… Are you serious?”

“I only use the half close to the house. Garage is full of crap on the other side.”

“Yeah.” Sam doesn’t know what to say. “I mean, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Meant what I said, Sam. You’re a good kid. Whatever happens, we’re still—”

“Neighbors,” Sam finishes. “We’ll be okay.”

 

Mom knocks on Sam’s doorframe. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

“We should talk.”

“Uh… okay.” Sam sits on the foot of the bed.

Mom takes the chair. “What’s going on, with you and Dean?”

“Nothing!”

Mom’s chin tilts, _bullshit_.

“We’re… hanging out, okay? Just talking.”

“Talking.” She presses her lips. “But you’re hoping for more than that.”

Sam nods.

“And I get it, Sam. He’s a fox.”

“Mom!”

“What do you want from me? I have eyes.”

Sam feels himself blushing again.

“I won’t lie,” Mom goes on. “I don’t like how you look at each other.”

He should’ve figured.

“But, I wouldn’t like it with anyone.” Mom looks around. Pearl Jam and _X-Files_ posters, school awards. “Not been so long ago, this room was all cowboys and dinosaurs.” She reaches out, squeezes his hand. “My little boy is growing up. No mom likes that.”

“What about Dad?”

“Your Dad…” She shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s figured it out yet.”

“Think he’ll be mad?”

“I think he’ll get over it.”

“That’s… reassuring?” Sam grimaces.

Mom chuckles. “Bottom line, I like Dean. He’s good people. And I’d rather have all this out in the open than you two sneaking around.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, for real.” Mom stands, Sam stands. She pats his chest. “Just, promise me you’ll be safe. I know you’re smart.”

Sam ducks his head.

“And you come talk to me, about anything. Everything.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I love you, Sammy.”

Sam swoops for a hug.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam lugs a crockpot of Buffalo chicken cheese dip down the sidewalk. Dad’s got a case of beer and Mom packs the chips. Novaks live four houses over, host the New Year’s block party every winter.

“Hey, hold up!” Dean hustles down his front steps. Champagne bottles clink in their box.

“Beer waits for no man, Smith,” Dad grumbles.

Sam slows a little, lets Dean catch him. “Happy New Year.” Shoulders brush.

“I’ll drink to that,” Dean says. “Well. Here in a minute I will.” Sam grins at him. Christmas lights on eaves and windows cast his face in red and green and blue. Eyes flick Sam’s way; mouth corner quirks. “Better watch where you’re going.”

Sam rolls eyes.

Mr. Novak welcomes them in. Directs the dip to the kitchen and booze to the back deck. Mrs. Novak adds Mom’s crock to a line of them: meatballs, nacho cheese, smoked sausage in barbecue sauce. Cold-cut and vegetable trays, cookies and brownies, two-liter pops and plastic cups cover every surface.

People mingle. Sam, by default hangs out with Brady, same as it’s been since third grade. “Visited Florida State last week.” Sloppy. Raided the punch bowl. “You wouldn’t believe it, Sammy, it’s wild. The booze, the bitches. I can’t _wait_ for college.”

Sam barely listens. All his attention’s on Dean, though he tries to be subtle. Dean looks amazing. Blue jeans, white button-down and a sweater in dark green, thin stripe around his chest and his sleeves rolled up. Sam takes it for a good sign: pretty much every time he looks, Dean’s glancing back. Eyebrows and half-smiles, drives Sam crazy.

Dining room table’s shoved aside to make room for a dance floor. Mini disco ball throws spots around. Mom and Dad show off, like they always do, until Dad gets too many beers in him.

“Five-minute warning!” Mr. Novak stops the music. “Everyone outside!” Some kind of superstition about crossing the threshold after midnight. Party moves out to the back deck, crowds out smokers. Plastic champagne cups go around, Sam snags a sparkling cider and Brady calls him a pussy. Sam’s about ready to wheel on him but Dean’s there. Catches his elbow, leads him off to a shadowed spot by a tree.

“Four! Three! Two! Happy New Year!”

Somebody belts out Auld Lang Syne, off-pitch. Party horns and cowbells, couples kissing.

Dean’s lips brush Sam’s ear, whispering, “Let’s get outta here.”

Sam nods. Tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. He spots Dad, sloshing champagne and laughing, leaning on Mom.

“Dean’s gonna walk me home. Is that okay?”

Dad’s face screws up, head tilts, but Mom says, “Sure, hon.” And a pointed look. “Be safe.”

Sam slips away, hears Dad, “The hell’s that about?”

Mom shushes him. “Later, John.”

Dean’s waiting, edge of the crowd. “We cool?”

Sam swallows his nerves. “We’re cool.” Hands stuffed in his pockets and Dean threads an arm through the gap, hooked at the elbow. Street’s deserted. Everyone else will stay and party another hour, at least. Dean leads him down the block, not rushed. Whistles while they walk.

They kick snow off their boots outside Dean’s door. Gloved hands fumble the keys. Inside, Dean takes Sam’s coat. “Turn on the stereo, wouldya?” Sam finds the right remote. Dean opens a cabinet, flips through records. “Perfect.” Black sleeve, vinyl, hiss of a needle and slow jazz. “Coltrane.” Dean sticks a hand out. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t—”

“Just follow me.” Hands on Sam’s hips, Dean guides him in a circle. Low light, Christmas tree casts crazy shadows. All Sam’s concentration goes to not stepping on Dean’s feet. “You gotta relax, Sam.” Dean pulls closer. Stubble tickles his jaw. Faded cologne mixes with champagne in his nose. Dean’s arms cross, small of his back. Sam’s dick perks up and Dean hums. Lips, then, teasing up under his ear. Dean’s head tilts, eyes almost all pupil, mingled breath.

They’re not dancing anymore. Saxophone moans. Dean’s hand slips up between them, knuckles against Sam’s cheek. He leans into it, eyes closed. So close Sam almost can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose, both wild. Dean’s tongue runs out, mouth shines and Sam can’t wait anymore.

Dean tastes like fruit and liquor. Perfect lips—still kind of cold—grip Sam’s, soft, slick, and suction. Hot tongue. Sam gasps, opens up and Dean licks, roof of his mouth. Sam groans and Dean feeds it right back to him. Squeezes behind his neck. Other hand rubs circles in Sam’s back and Sam’s hanging on for dear life, hard at Dean’s hip.

Air. Sam pants, must’ve forgotten to breathe and Dean stares, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Jesus, kid, you’re…” Fingers trail along Sam’s spine and he bucks. “See?” Kissing again and Sam’s hips roll. Dean lets out a hiss. “What do you want, Sam?” Brushes hair behind his ear. “Fuck, give you anything. Wanna see you come again. God help me, I don’t wanna wait.”

Sam damn near blows in his jeans. “I… wanna see you too, Dean. Feel you, hear you yell…”

Dean stutter-breathes, staggers. Drags Sam down and they hit the couch. Sam spreads his legs, Deans slots between and Sam grinds, needy and loud. Dean throws his head back. Sweat shines in his open collar. He pops up, ditches his sweater and Sam goes for buttons. Pale skin, scattered freckles, muscle lines at his middle where Sam’s all ribs. Fingertips, Dean’s stomach jumps as he wrestles his shirt off. Sam attacks his belt, but he grabs Sam’s wrists.

“Wait.”

Full-body shiver. Sam says, “Yes, sir.”

Dean’s eyes flutter. “Fuuuck,” under his breath and he hauls Sam up. Palms cup his jaws, mouths crash together and tongues rake. Sam pets Dean’s back, skin smooth and warm. So turned on he can’t even see straight. Dean roots under his shirts, strips him and shoves him down. “You wanna see, huh?” Strokes up the hard line in his jeans. Sam’s ass lifts clean off the cushions. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sam’s belt. Dean’s belt. Buttons and zippers and waistbands. Dean kneels over him, cock out, dark and curved. Sam’s fingers flex, mouth waters and belly tightens. “Can I—”

“Thought you liked to watch.” Hooded eyes, licked lips and a hand curled around. No sound, besides their breathing. Record ran out and Sam didn’t even notice. He swallows, links his fingers behind his head. Dean slides slow up his length. Makes a show of it, thrusting against his palm and grinning. Hips roll and his forearm flexes, cockhead dips in and out of his fist. Faster, soft grunts tumble out, jaws tight. Sam wants to touch so bad he shakes. “M’close,” Dean rumbles. “You want it on you?”

Sam convulses. “Yes.” Crack in his voice. Dean pitches forward, braced on the couch arm, lost in it. Forehead-to-forehead. Knuckles graze against Sam and he can’t help running his hands up Dean’s thighs. Hard thrust and a ragged breath and Dean roars. First shot lands hot on his chest and he’s right behind. Fists ball and heels dig in. Vision blurs.

Dean breathes, “Ohh God,” over and over. Paints Sam up. They mix together. Sam grabs his face, tilts into his mouth. Nose, chin, and teeth collide. Sam growls. Dean slumps. Fingers the mess on Sam’s stomach. “You,” breath catches, “you okay?”

“Okay?” Sam laughs, dazed. “I’m fuckin’ awesome.”

Dean sideways-smiles, rolls to his feet. “Stay put.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hitched eyebrow, gritted teeth. “You need to knock that shit off.”

“You don’t like it?” Round eyes, over-innocent.

Dean sighs. “So gonna kill me.”

Sam shuts his eyes. Cat-stretches. Hand towel hits his face and makes him jump. “Hey!”

Dean leans on the kitchen doorframe, unzipped. Dark spot stains his gray silk boxers. “Mop yourself up, huh? Then we’ll talk.”

Sam almost says he has better ideas for that mouth, but Dean looks serious. “Okay.” He rubs down his middle, half-assed, cleans his hands and zips up.

Sink shuts off. Dean lingers in the doorway. “So much for slow, huh?”

“I’m not complaining.”

“I know. It’s just.” Cheeks blow out. “I’m a little drunk.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Well no, I mean…” Dean joins him on the couch. Takes Sam’s hands. Thumbs his knuckles. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes, Dean!” Sam huffs. “I’ve never been so okay in all my life.” Dean’s throat works. Sam plows ahead. “Were you here just now? I got off _watching_ you.”

“Sam.” Like chewing glass.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why do you keep trying to push me away?”

Dean takes a breath. “Because… I don’t do this. Get invested. I mean I… fuck around some. Kind of a lot when I was younger but I don’t _date_.” He shakes his head. “Men don’t take pretty boys seriously. Or. Serious men don’t hit on pretty boys, I dunno.” Hand drags his mouth. “Point is, I’m _already_ invested in you. I never wanna let you go, Sam, and that scares the shit outta me. Because, I want you to live your life. I don’t wanna be the reason you don’t… go to prom, or, see the world, or, whatever it is you wanna do.”

Sam stares.

“And if it doesn’t work out, then what, huh? We’ll have to see each other, probably forever and I don’t wanna do that to you.”

“Dean, stop.”

“There’s just so many ways this goes bad.”

“Okay, one? What makes you think I wanna go to another prom?” Rolled eyes. “And two, if I wanna see the world, I’ll take you with me.”

Dean looks suckerpunched.

“I know you think I’m young, and stupid—”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“—or, I don’t know what I want—”

Chin jerks.

“—and maybe you’re right, but…” Sam swings himself across Dean’s lap. Dean groans, head falls back. “Look at me.” Eyes flutter. Sam sweeps a thumb along his jaw. “Right now,” drops a kiss on his mouth, “ _this_ is what I want. Fuck, this is my wish-come-true.”

Dean presses his face to Sam’s hand. Whispers, “I never fell for anyone before.”

“Neither have I.” Sam shrugs. “So we’re even.”

Dean tangles hands in Sam’s hair. “You’re sure.”

“Oh my God. I’m sure.” Impatient. Then, “You gonna kick me out now? ’Cause-uh…” All this contact, Sam’s half-mast again. Rocks down. “We could go upstairs.”

Dean bucks underneath him. “Yeah, okay.” Dry kiss. “Upstairs.”

 

Sam wakes to a sort of, wheezy-mechanical sound. Rolls over and rubs his eyes. Dean’s on the elliptical. Shirtless. Sweat gleams off his back and shoulders. Sam kinda wants to lick it. Basketball shorts ride up, cling to his ass. Thick hairy thighs ripple and strain. Smell of him hangs in the air, on the sheets. Beats the hell outta Sam’s cold treehouse.

Eyebrow when Dean steps down, sees Sam checking him out. “Mornin’.”

“Hey.” Sam arches up, full body stretch. Sweet ache in his abs from coming. Got off three times last night, and Dean barely touched him. Once just from having Dean’s dick in his mouth.

Dean eyes the obvious tent in his lap. “Geez, kid, how many times can you come in a day?”

“You wanna find out?” Sam grazes his fingers above the sheet. Dick jerks.

Dean growls. “Some of us need sustenance. And you need to call your mom.” Stifled wince.

“I told you she’s cool with this.”

“Yeah, I bet _cool’s_ overstating it.” He snags a towel from the top of his hamper. Sniffs it and shrugs. “And if she is, I’d like to keep it that way.” Rubs it behind his neck, over his chest.

“Let me.” Sam springs out of bed.

Dean grins, head shakes a little. “Anyway, I gotta run to Walgreen’s.”

Sam scrunches his face. “Okay…” Snags the towel and wipes down Dean’s throat.

“Fuckin’ Jo. Went out on Christmas and I guess she took my condom stash.”

Sam loops the towel around, dries his back. “Do-uh… we really have to use one?”

Eyes snap. “That is the first dumb thing I’ve heard you say.”

“Why? Should I be worried about you?”

“No, but shit. You can’t be takin’ a guy’s word for that.”

“Dean.” Sam nuzzles up. “I trust you.”

Jaw muscles spasm.

“But if you’re worried about _me_ —”

“Goddammit.” Dean’s chin drops. “You’re sure.”

“Question is, are _you_ sure?” Sam rubs morning wood against his hip.

Dean sighs. “Yeah.” Wraps sweaty arms around, tickles the back of Sam’s neck. “All right.”

Sam dives for a kiss, ditches the towel and gropes Dean’s ass over slippery fabric. Dean stirs against him. Sam smirks. “How many times can _you_ come in a day?”

Dean bumps their foreheads. “Uh-uh. Phone, breakfast, shower.”

Sam pouts.

“Then, if you wanna hang around, I’ll fuck you ’til you beg me to stop.”

 

Water runs warm over Sam’s shoulders, down his back. Tiles press cool at his forearms and Dean… Tongue scalds, stubble rakes between his cheeks. Soft lapping circles tease his hole. Just short of a whine when he nips the rim, wriggles his tongue up inside. Sam’s never had more than a finger in there and he couldn’t believe Dean wanted this. Sounded so gross but it feels so—God he wants to try it. Get Dean on his knees and… Head goes light, gut clenches. “I’m gonna come,” and he feels Dean laughing against him.

Tug on his balls and, “Not yet.” Sam groans. Dean licks up his spine, sucks at his neck. “Next time you come’ll be on my dick.” Sam bangs his head on the wall. “You want that?”

“God yes.”

Dean cuts the water but Sam can’t move. Legs made of Jell-O. Soft, gigantic towel and Dean rubs circles on his back, around his sides, sweeps up and dries Sam’s hair. Sam shoves upright. Turns and cups his palms under Dean’s jaws. Wet, sloppy kisses. Dean feels up his ass, grinds them together. Heavy, thick against him.

“Want you now,” Sam breathes.

“Pushy.” Dean grins.

“Horny,” Sam gripes. Drags them both out of the shower.

Dean lays him out on the sheets. Bites at his ear, mouths down his throat. Sam pets at his face, his hair, his arms. Squirms under him, shower- and sweat-damp. Dean looks up through his lashes, licks his lips and Sam shakes. Tongue trails, lazy down his chest. Hands at his hips and Dean’s thigh pressed between his legs. Sam rides it, shameless. Grunts and shudders. Ass jumps clear off the bed when Dean gets that fucking mouth around him. Laps at the head, squeezes the base, Dean bobs. Sam balls fists in the covers and moans.

Next thing he knows Dean’s shoving pillows under him. Folding and spreading, kissing between his thighs. Mouth works his balls, lips tug and tongue presses behind. Sam grits his teeth. Grip on his dick’s all that stops him from blowing a load.

Cool air when Dean pulls back. Slick circling his hole. Sam grabs his knees, offers it all up. Fingertip dips in and Sam tries bucking against it. Needs it, but Dean moves with him. Sam starts cussing, begging, burning up, so hard he could cut glass.

Dean’s hand spreads low on his belly. “More?”

“Shit. Fuck. Yes, Goddammit.” Moan rips out on that second finger.

Dean adds more lube, opens him slow ’til he’s buried, curling inside Sam. Dick can’t figure out what to do. Wilts with the pain but shoots back up every time Dean whispers, “Okay?”

Sam bangs the mattress. Fists, heels. Hips and abs roll. Dean jacks up and down, tight-grips the base and Sam grays out. _Prostate_ drifts through his mind and he heard it was awesome but holy shit. Sam curls up, knees to his shoulders, chin to his chest. Dean’s thumb spreads precome down his underside. Teeth grind and it hits him he’s fucking himself on Dean’s hand.

“Damn, you are so hot.”

Sam barely hears. Sweat runs from his temples, soaks his hair. Full-throated wail when Dean pulls out, pushes back in, three.

“Almost there, doin’ so good, Sam.” Dean skates his prostate and if he doesn’t come soon he’s gonna cry. Dean mouths his cock. Splits him, pumps and stretches.

Sam’s eyes roll back. “Dean, for God’s sakes, please.”

“I dunno…”

“Need to come so bad, just… get in me.”

Dean lets out a wrecked sound. Fingers leave. Sam’s hole contracts, flutters on nothing. Pressure, hot and blunt. His core curls up, legs spread, far as they’ll go. Can’t hold still. Sam bears down, sucks Dean deeper. Dean rubs, pulls him apart and sinks, ungodly slow. Sam’s heart pounds. Bed shakes. Dean’s hands clutch at his hips, bruise-tight and he drives in. Growls low.

“Don’t stop,” Sam chants. Paws Dean’s forearms, gropes for his chest until Dean hits bottom. Pitches forward. Sam grabs his face, kisses him, frantic.

“God, you feel good.”

Sam convulses.

Dean sucks a breath. “I can’t—”

“Fuck me,” Sam breathes. “Need it.”

Dean moves, pressure shifts inside him, burns. “Sam…” Like it hurts. “Not gonna last long, you’re so—”

“Do it,” Sam rasps. “Make me come.”

Slow. Sweet, tormenting drag. Dean pushes, pulls. Sam sweats, rocks hips, fights for breath. Dean swirls, praises: _hot_ and _tight_ and _needy_. Sam’s eyes roll back, muscles seize. Dean’s hand snakes in between them. Barely a grip before Sam blows, yelling and thrashing. Hears his name. Dean slams home, writhes above him and floods his insides. Sam’s hips jump, whole body shakes. Dick jerks, soaked between them. Dean goes still.

Panting. Dean’s come trickling out, hair tickling his face. Sam squeezes his neck, strokes down his back. Legs wrapped around—can’t let go yet.

“I’ma need another shower,” Dean slurs into his collarbone.

Sam laughs, makes Dean hiss. “I’m down.” Stings, softening cock retreating. “Kinda wanna eat _you_ out this time.”

Dean eyes him. “Some kinda mouth on you, I swear to God.”

“We’ll find out, huh?” Smirk.

Shiver. “Now you’re _tryin’_ to kill me.” Dean rolls halfway off, one arm and leg draped over Sam. “Nap first.”

Sam tucks a hand behind his head. “You got it.” Goes out listening to Dean’s snores.

 

**EPILOGUE**

Sam dumps his cap and gown on the bed. Tie’s already loose, top button open. Total chaos downstairs, friends and family pack the house.

Chorus of congratulations, envelopes of cash slipped in his hands. Hugs and tears and handshakes. Dad keeps bragging about, “Stanford! Full ride!” and Mom smiles, glimmer of sadness.

Sam’s eyes, same as always, drift toward Dean. Something’s up with him, has a surprise planned, maybe. Little smirks and tics. Sam bets he sucks at poker. Closest kin share lunch at their favorite hole-in-the-wall. Dean, by his side, knees pressed together.

Sun hangs low. Sam’s best shirt and dress pants sit in a crumpled heap on the floor. He sprawls across Dean’s chest, stares up at him, gorgeous in the fading light.

Dean’s hand in his hair, scratches his scalp. “’M prouda you, Sam.”

He sighs. Gonna miss this, out in California.

“Been meanin’ to tell you. My boss, Adler, made me an offer last week.”

“That’s awesome!” Sam still doesn’t fully get what Dean does. Sales, he knows. Just, what he sells? At Bridge and Iron? Total mystery.

“Yeah, not so much.” Dean shifts. “I mean, the money’s good. Real good but,” nose-to-nose, both on their sides, “I turned him down.”

“You… why?”

“In his words? Seven days a week, lunch at my desk, and I’m just…” shakes his head, “uh-uh.”

Sam fights a freak-out. “Please don’t say it was because of me.”

“Of course it was.”

“Dean…” Sam rolls on his back, forearm over his eyes.

“Hey. Look at me.” Dean hooks his chin. “Adler can fuck himself.” He scoots close, presses their bodies from shoulder to toe. Lips graze. “I have everything I want right here.”

“But—”

“Listen. I been talkin’ to headhunters. Lotta good jobs out West, this whole, dot-com thing.”

Sam’s heart races.

“It’s a big move, I know. Draggin’ your geriatric boyfriend off to coll—”

Sam pounces, kisses him hard. “You’re serious.”

Dean nods.

“And you’re so not geriatric. God.” Sam’s mind races with possibilities. Get an apartment, maybe a dog. Wake up every day like this, naked and tangled.

“So what do you think?”

Sam’s head spins. “I think…” No clue what to say. “I think you’re perfect.”


End file.
